


To Be Another Than the One

by Shirokokuro



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman Beyond, Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Cheesy bonding ensues, Fluff and Angst, Gen, He's on the bandwagon with Alfred on that one, It's Tim and a baby okay?, Lonnie supports Tim getting sleep, Retcon of Red Robin #16, Terry is a happy baby, Tim is sad over Bruce being lost in time, who doesn't want that?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-16 08:08:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16082000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shirokokuro/pseuds/Shirokokuro
Summary: With Bruce being lost in time, maybe connecting with the man's spitting image is exactly what Tim's been needing.(Title derived from Joanna Klink's "Stillways")





	To Be Another Than the One

**Author's Note:**

> Admittedly, this is pretty heavy on Red Robin #16 references, but I was doing some research for a separate fic and discovered something: In that issue, Tim goes back to his old apartment and realizes a new family has moved into it. The scene's just one page, but I was struck with the headcanon that it was the McGinnis' that moved in with their newborn. OmO''' I mean, Warren McGinnis' hair color is the same as the dad's, and the baby had black hair. I think this headcanon has some grounds. But anywho...
> 
> *Title is a variation of a line in Joanna Klink's "Stillways," excerpt below

* * *

 

_"And everything that bears happening_

_cannot happen again"_

-Joanna Klink, “Stillways”

* * *

 

Tim taps the end call button and allows himself the pleasure of slumping back in his chair with a sigh. He’s watching the computer fuzz back into black, disappointed. Frustrated. A lot of things, actually.

It was another update from Booster Gold, another lie. It’s all with good intentions, of course. Everyone’s working hard to find Bruce, and Tim guesses receiving false hope is better than no hope at all. Still, the image of a faked smile remains burned on the inside of Tim’s eyes, and hopeful words ring mute in his ears.

_“I’m on the case, Red Robin.”_

_“I’m making good headway, Red Robin.”_

_“I’ll find him, Red—”_

Tim runs a tired hand over his face.

He’s no time traveler, no expert on temporal searches and reverting the time stream. He discovered Bruce was alive, trapped in time. That’s his job: discover and investigate. And that should be enough, because despite everything else—the doubt, the betrayal, the grey—he made it. He found the answer, and now, Bruce’s return is out of his hands; it’s time to leave it to the experts. (Or, well, leave it to Booster Gold, anyway.)

Tim’s fingertips are still racing on the desk in front of him, impatiently tapping out a tune like horse hooves, and he hastily turns his computer back on. There’s no need for it: The pieces for his Hit List are already falling into place with both Scarab and Lynx in prison, Vicki Vale distracted, and Lonnie Machin safe. He should just call it a day, but there’s more—always more—to do. Besides, too many thoughts are running through Tim’s head to sleep, and as much as he promised Alfred he’d rest ( _Sorry, Alf._ ), a new browser is popped open and glaring white in his direction.

The cursor blinks expectantly. To be honest, Tim’s not sure how to employ his excess energy first. His mind’s still trapped in thoughts of Bruce, of dead fathers and of his recent visit to Iron Heights Prison—to Captain Boomerang. It’s been two years since Dad was killed, but the feeling of cold skin and the smell of iron remain razor sharp on Tim’s mind, grating and twisting like a knife wound through his head.

Is it strange that Dad’s face is fading, but the shock is still there same as yesterday?

Tim snorts out a laugh through his nose while the cursor continues strobing. Guess he was right with what he told Harkness: The man’s biggest worry isn’t Flash, isn’t even Amanda Waller and her Suicide Squad. It’s just Tim and the bitter bite of iron in the air that still haunts.

The cursor blinks once more.

Amanda Waller.

Now there’s an idea. Tim hasn’t looked into her much since before he became Red Robin, a few months ago by now. Might as well see what she’s been doing and if she needs to be added to his list.

A flurry of keys clatter, strings of binary racing across the screen in neon. Tim enters the government’s classified zone without a second thought (Rule of thumb: If it’s not classified, it’s not fun.), slipping through a few more firewalls and snatching whatever files seem promising before vanishing. He backs out of the system just before the security can catch on he was there, which is a bit disconcerting. He doesn’t recall the government’s tech being this up-to-date…and since when did Waller make deals with Project Cadmus?

Tim blinks at the transaction, just a hand-off of a “confidential substance” via transport. Nothing more is said about it, not even a listing of what project it’s for. Whatever it is, they’re working hard to cover it up; it’s on the need to know.

Tim would argue he’s on the need to know now too.

However, risking a second run through the government’s servers only proves that Waller is good at covering her tracks. No project is listed outside of the Suicide Squad and a few other “hobbies” like extortion, frameups, and bribery. Naturally, they’re all in the name of national security. Pretty par for course with Waller.

More importantly, there’s nothing that should demand a science branch getting involved in her affairs.

Tim’s hoping Cadmus’ tech isn’t as deft as he maneuvers his way through their security. Thankfully, it’s not, and before long, he’s skimming through their files. “Superboy” comes up a few times, and Tim winces a bit at the thought of Conner. ( _He’s alive now. It shouldn’t hurt to see his name anymore._ ) A collection of other pet projects are there too, cloning and experimentation. All normal things.

Finally, Tim spots something that catches his eyes, a shipment of DNA that matches with the time frame on Waller’s side. No name is linked to the DNA. A copy listing of the nucleobases isn’t provided either. It leaves Tim wondering why it’s ordered explicitly on the file that no one is to try to ID the “donor.” ( _Probably not a willing participant_ , he guesses. _Must be someone important_.) The question still stands why Waller would want to protect an identity and a project name so much.

There’s a feeling growing that the two are linked somehow, so Tim keeps digging. There must be some mention of it in Cadmus. A name. A name. What’s the project’s name?

A hit.

It’s muttered in security footage, a conversation between Waller and one of the lead researchers. Word of mouth only and the sound’s been clipped but Tim can read lips.

He rewinds.

Reads again.

“What have you done?” he finds himself saying, as if the woman in the video can hear him. Waller’s stuck in a perpetual loop of repeating the same three words, words that are barely setting in with a horror that strikes in Tim’s spine.

_“Project Batman Beyond.”_

* * *

 

“You sure this is the place, Lonnie?” Tim asks into his mic. He’s still in Gotham, now leaning over a too-familiar rooftop and looking in at a too-familiar apartment.

_This. Is. The. Address. Matching. The. Hospital. Records._

Lonnie is blunt as usual in his delivery, and Tim’s hanging on to that calmness. (If “Batman Beyond” means what Tim thinks it means, at least one of them has to be keeping a grip.) The irony of the McGinnis’ address only adds to Tim’s unease, because this—This is his and Dad’s old apartment. He really thought he’d cut ties to the place when he’d seen a new family moving in last month, but here Tim is, back again and sneaking through the window to his old bedroom.

The floor doesn’t creak when Tim sets his foot down. He crept back in here too many times when he was out moonlighting as Robin to not know which floorboards remain silent. It feels the same now, a faint apprehension hanging that Dad might crack open the door and catch Tim there in his bedroom in full Robin uniform.

But Dad’s been dead two years, Tim is Red Robin now, and this isn’t Tim’s room.

It’s been converted into a nursery by the looks of it, an ocean-themed mobile floating over a crib while giraffe wallpaper coats the place in happy green. A few stuffed animals are piled up beside a wicker chair in the corner, sown eyes watching Tim peruse the room.

No cameras. A sound-based baby monitor is all that’s here from what he can tell. Red Robin is satisfied with that amount of information. Tim, on the other hand, wants to know more; he’s dimly curious how much the apartment’s changed in the past few weeks. Mostly, his mind is occupied by silly questions: if the silverware’s still kept in the drawer left of the sink or if the living room has been painted a different color. Part of him is wondering if the kitchen floors have been replaced too, if the tile grouting’s still stained red with Dad’s—

No.

Nostalgia and bad memories aren’t why Tim’s here.

Mainly, he’s here to see if the newborn’s DNA matches. That’s it.

Tim rips his eyes away from the door to the hall and beelines for the crib. It takes him a moment of hesitant self-coaching before he dips his head to look inside. A black tuft of hair sits against pale skin— _Same as Bruce’s_ , Tim’s mind supplies. What he’s now guessing must be blue eyes are closed in sleep, a mouth faintly agape and breathing soft breaths like dreams. Totally calm. Something about the image exhorts an awkward smile out of Tim. He catches himself quickly (He doesn’t smile much anymore.) and instead ponders how he’s going to do a heel puncture without waking up a baby. A swab would work, but there’s always the possibility that the sample could be void of DNA.

His face scrunches up in concentration. This…is going to be a challenge.

Something about Tim’s stubborn expression must shift the air, as baby blues snap open. Tim slinks back, cringing, because he’s certain he only looked like a fuzzy, terrifying, (Did he mention terrifying?) blur to the month-and-a-half-year-old. A small cluster of sobs from the crib tell him that answer is a yes, and Tim’s vigilante instincts kick in like he’s stuck in an abattoir instead of a nursery. Tim’s almost about to dive through the window when he remembers he still needs a DNA sample.

Sobs turn into screams.

Forget the DNA, what he needs right now is Dick. He’d know what to do.

That’s what Tim is thinking as he stands paralyzed two feet from the cradle. At the moment, he’s almost full-on panicking. How do you calm a baby? That’s not really something Bruce taught in Robin 101, and all Tim remembers are the distant Lamaze classes he went to with Steph way back when. None of that’s super helpful right now.

Tim has one half of his focus trained on the door to the hallway as he takes a nervous step forward. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he hisses at the figure in the crib, unraveling and abandoning all attempts at keeping up his Red Robin voice. By now, he’s just a seventeen-year-old ~~trapped~~ with an infant. “I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m a friend, okay? See?”

Eyes fly open again. The crying stops.

Tim knows the words made no sense to the baby, but that’s what it feels like as blue eyes stare up, glossed over with glassy tears and trained on Tim like he’s the most interesting thing in the world.

Tim waits a few more seconds, eying the door still, and when no one comes, he allows himself a relieved sigh. “You’re gonna get me in trouble,” he shushes, letting a sour look slide over his face. The expression cracks as soon as his attention returns to the figure in the crib. The baby’s still watching him with bright eyes, trying to lift his little neck to get a better look at Tim’s face, and it hits why he was crying earlier.

Tim spends an extra instant trying to decode the look his new acquaintance is sending him. He makes to shift back, and the crocodile tears return instantly, proving the suspicion. “Okay, okay. You want me to stay. Got it.” A garble of something echoes, and Tim suspects the baby must be trying to mimic the word. “Stay. That’s right,” he encourages, “If you don’t cry, I’ll stay.”

Wide eyes grow a bit more, clearly entranced by the dark figure looming over him, and Tim’s original plight returns. How on earth is he going to get a heel puncture from this kid? He sucks in a nervous breath along with the realization that babies are far from his forte. Don’t get him wrong: Tim knows plenty about infants, the stages of development, how to provide medical treatment, all those good things. Interacting with infants, however, is a whole ‘nother ball game.

That truth is one Tim shoves aside, and a hand tentatively stretches downward until his fingertips are brushing back raven hair. The baby doesn’t seem to mind, instead grabbing at the fin-shaped details jutting out from the side of Tim’s gloves.

Okay. Maybe he can do this baby thing.

“Terrence, right?” Tim whispers for light conversation, “not a bad name. You look more like a Terry, though.”

A chorus of happy gurgles respond.

“You like that? Well, Terry it is, then,” Tim decides, unaware of the equally-happy smirk spreading across his face. He lazes there for a few more seconds, free arm resting on the crib’s edge as he strokes the infant’s hair, strangely content until the reminder of why he’s really here resurfaces. Tim straightens, mentally kicking himself for getting distracted so easily, and shoves a hand in one of his belt’s pouches.

Terry seems pretty brave from what Tim has gathered, maybe enough to not shriek at the idea of blood being drawn, so Tim does his best to keep the infant distracted. As it happens, Terry seems mesmerized with his costume, and that doesn’t appear to be changing. So, Tim spends most of his time wiggling his own ears to cycle through the different lens settings of his mask, prompting white eyes to flip through the infrared, night vision, and UV colors that hold Terry’s focus like he’s witnessing magic or meeting his favorite actor—star-struck. Evidently, the baby’s too enraptured to cry, and it’s not long before Tim’s holding a capillary tube of what may or may not be Bruce’s biological son’s DNA.

For the kid’s sake, he hopes it’s the latter, but why else would Waller show so much interest in the McGinnis’?

Tim sighs and pockets the vial. It’s only just setting in how tired he is, now thinking of the future this Terry McGinnis is going to have and questioning how much Tim should involve himself with it. He’s pieced together a bit of Waller’s plans—They’re not too pleasant, really. She’s noticed Bruce is gone like most in the upper-echelons of the superhero community have and is launching a plot to recreate another Batman. Using the could-be son Bruce doesn’t even know he has.

Tim’s forehead slips onto the ledge of the cradle, exhausted from overthinking. Who does he tell about this? Does he even tell? Damian would probably have a cow if he got wind of Bruce having another biological son, and as tempting as that thought is, Tim quickly decides it’s in Terry’s best interest to keep this a secret, to let the kid live a normal life. He’ll throw a kink in Waller’s plan on his own. The less who know about this, the better.

Terry whimpers a bit, probably thinking that his new friend has vanished, and Tim is prompted to lift his head and flash his face. Some of Tim’s exhaustion melts at the elated look Terry gets, clearly overjoyed that his playmate has “reappeared.” A gummy grin is splayed to bolster the mood, and it’s all Tim can do to blink at the expression.

Terry’s just turned seven weeks, so him smiling shouldn’t be unexpected. Still, there’s the odd feeling that this is the first time the baby’s smiled, Terry himself looking a bit surprised at the development. By now, the infant’s clearly infatuated with the expression, gurgling something or another in delighted squeals that cause Tim’s panic to revive.

Terry’s parents will catch on sooner or later, and with the DNA sample safely on his person, Tim figures now should be the time for him to make his daring escape. A second after the teenager moves to leave, however, another cry echoes.

“Terry, look,” Tim hisses (Maybe it’s more like a beg at this point.), “I have to go, and you have to go to sleep.”

Terry clearly isn’t understanding their revised agreement, instead deciding to test what his fist tastes like and if two can fit in his mouth simultaneously; sleep is not on the horizon whatsoever. _It’s no wonder his parents haven’t woken up yet_ , Tim thinks jadedly, sparing a hopeless glance at the baby monitor. They’re probably sleeping like the dead if they have to entertain a bundle of energy like this one every night.

But, baby-sitting is not Tim’s job. His actual job involves working on the still-unfinished reports for Wayne Enterprises, and Tim did promise Alfred he’d sleep some tonight. Of course, that’s the exact moment that drool-coated hands reach up in entreaty, Terry asking to be picked up off his back, and Tim knows leaving is not an option.

A thrilled Terry kicks his legs in elation as he’s brought up and swaddled in a black cape, a smile sparkling in his eyes as his hands reach for the beak on Tim’s mask. Tim pulls back just a fraction to avoid the grabby fingers, and he situates himself on the floor against the wall, recounting the story behind each and every stain that speckles the carpet. One’s from a soda he’s pretty sure Ives spilled, another from a midnight snack Tim had tried to sneak in when he was grounded. That was back before Dad knew he was Robin, back when Dad took him fishing and tried to make up for lost time.

It’s nothing more than a dream now.

Tim pulls his eyes away at the memories and returns them to bright blue irises. The teenager only finds more memories there, though, because— _Gosh, they’re just like Bruce’s_. There’s a small sting, an ache of homesickness and a time when he was Robin and Bruce was Batman, the dynamic duo that’s since faded into nothingness.

(It’s always the times we can’t get back that we miss the most.)

Terry makes a coo that calls Tim’s attention back. For a baby, he’s highly attuned, eyebrows pulled up somewhat like he’s about to start crying, stuck between empathizing and asking. The hands are still reaching up toward Tim, trying to touch him and feel him and understand.

“I miss him. Batman,” Tim elaborates, readjusting the infant in his arms. The hands grip cape instead, and Tim supposes that’s fine. Sometimes he forgets what it feels like to be felt by someone else. “You’d like him. Batman’s stubborn, but he cares, and—” Tim sucks in a thin breath. “I just miss him. I miss him a lot.”

Terry bats his eyes, concealing blue and Tim doesn’t want that. He wants to feel like he’s still connected to Bruce somehow, because not even Damian has Bruce’s eyes like this. He pulls Terry a little closer, appreciating how small fingers are now tracing his mask and the faded scars on his face, and Tim closes his eyes. He’s melting in how warm someone so small can be, how quiet it is here—here at home in a settling apartment with his baby brother and two parents.

He misses that too.

And there’s a second where Tim questions how he can miss something that he never even had.

* * *

 A bird chirps.

Tim wakes up, muscles remaining dormant as his eyes snap open, fully aware now like he’s gone zero to sixty in the span of a second. He stares straight ahead, concerned, because he doesn’t remember how he got here—wherever “here” is, in full uniform, on the floor.

A slip of light is filtering in through the window right over where Tim is sitting, pleasant beams that bake on the black of his costume and sting his eyes. The brightness drives him to duck his head.

And that’s when Tim remembers.

Terry’s still there in his arms, a happily snoozing bundle of heat that’s trading exhales and inhales, and Tim is flooded with how he wound up here. It’s an honest miracle that Tim hasn’t encountered someone screaming over a vigilante having broken into their house. But Tim’s remained, undisturbed enough to have slept until—

 _Seven a.m._ , the clock in the upper corner of his mask’s screen reminds.

He’s already missed a meeting at Wayne Enterprises.

Great.

Tim shuffles to his feet, careful to keep his torso stilled enough so as not to disturb the dozing baby in his arms. Terry’s fast asleep, remains that way when Tim returns him to the crib. He really does look like Bruce in a strange way, a resemblance that makes Tim hesitate and stay, keep watch for a few more seconds that logic says he shouldn’t be spending but something else tells him he should. Terry just looks so innocent there, so sweet and content.

A few fingers brush over a head of hair, feather-light (“Be good, okay?”), and Tim’s slipped out the window smooth as a breeze. No one will even know he was there.

_Good. Morning. Red. Bird._

Tim flinches horribly, enough that he hopes none of the pedestrians trickling by down below have noticed. “Why didn’t you wake me up, Lonnie?” the teenager grumbles, leaping and shooting a line.

_You. Hadn’t. Slept. In. Two. Days. / It. Was. Better. To. Allow. You. Rest._

“Thanks for your concern,” Tim deadpans, mulling over how behind he is on both civilian-work and vigilante-work now. (Although maybe it was worth it.) “But please, don’t let me pass out in a stranger’s apartment again.”

Tim fires another line, the feeling of weight and weightlessness mixing before the line goes taut and pulls him further above street and city. He’s already feeling a bit empty without an extra weight in his arms, just himself now. That doesn’t make sense: Tim’s been solo for months. So why is he feeling that he left something behind that he shouldn’t have?

Lonnie answers the question for him: _You. Grew. Attached._

“He might be my mentor’s son,” Tim brushes off, understates, and he leaves it at that. It’s enough of a battle to fight the red growing up on his cheeks, because…maybe Tim did get attached.

Maybe just a little bit.


End file.
